Intermission and second half

The Claw languished in the safe keeping of Mr D for a long long time. This was entirely due to my poor memory. I forgot all about it for perhaps a year, then, starting up one day in alarm ("The Claw! The Claw!"), I had to ask John to re-send the old email, that I had lost, with Mr D's details on it, so that I could contact Mr D and find out if any of his contemporaries were still alive enough to have been consulted.

John duly searched for and sent me the email, and I forgot all about it again for a long time.

Eventually, memory rallied, and I rang Mr D. to ask how he was getting on with his grouse foot enquiries. A slow, creaky voice informed me in that most genteel Edinburgh-Scots accent that, alas, no one knew of foot-curers any more. But never fear, he had the Claw, safely stored in a drawer. Good, I thought, no one has been maimed or savaged in the night, with only tell-tale scrabbly scratchy marks on the doors to indicate the escape of an unknown intruder after perpetrating a hideous crime against an elderly jeweller.

That could have been the end of the saga, but I had been on eBay - I knew that such brooches did come up from time to time, under various titles, including lucky rabbit's paw. I asked Mr D if he would be able to cannibalise (horrid thought!) another brooch to restore M's, if I could obtain something similar. Yes, he creaked genteelly, he thought perhaps he could. I offered to email him a picture of any brooch I managed to obtain. Oh nooooo, we don't have those computers or anything like that heeere..... (how crass of me to have thought of such a thing; he made it sound like they might still be getting used to the new-fangled electric light).

So the hunt for a donor was on. I stalked a selection (pictured below in Enter the Claw) and sent pictures of them to M. She didn't fancy any of them, but as it had been so long since she had clapped eyes on the original, I suspected that she had forgotten the sorry state it was in, and therefore couldn't compare it with the glorious condition (ahem) that the selected replacement was in. So I went ahead anyway; my blood was up by now, and M wasn't going to throw a talon in the works now!

I employed my considerable and surprising skill at last-second bidding to obtain the one I wanted, in the teeth of some determined opponents bidding furiously against each other. I really dislike bidding on eBay, as I hate that rush of adrenalin - anyone who has ever had a panic attack will know exactly how horrible adrenalin can feel - but I'm rather good at it, having been taught by the Lovely Son, who has nerves of steel and fast reflexes. I just have to have a little walk outdoors afterwards, breathing deeply, telling myself it's only shopping and greed, so get a grip.

When the chosen donor brooch arrived, it looked rather elderly and pathetic too, but had a striking resemblance to how M's Claw may have looked 20 years ago before baldness struck and toe-amputation occurred. I duly packed it off to Mr D the jeweller, with a polite letter and my contact details. And then I forgot about it again for a long time. Mrs Short Term Memory Loss meets the Claw of Forgetfulness... anyway, this time Mr D had assured me that he would let me know how he was getting on with the job.

Several prompts later, Mr D having an inordinate number of foreign holidays for a man of his advanced years, the postman brought me a little parcel. It was perhaps the most gruesome package I have ever received, and I opened it with the fire tongs and leather gardening gloves. Then without showing the cats, I rewrapped it with a note and sent it on to patient and unquestioning M, back in her home in Toronto. It could be her next birthday present, I said.

The Claw Goes Forth

Some smart alec (me) decided that the Claw, having a Scottish look, with its Cairngorm-y stone and hint of kilt-pin about it, might find its spiritual home in Scotland, and in particular, Edinburgh's Royal Mile, with its vast array of souvenir shops and tartan-influenced paraphenalia. And its well-heeled connections to Scotland's grouse moors.

So I asked brother in law John to join the mission to restore the Claw to its rightful state of perfect gruesomeness. John originates from Edinburgh, and is thus entitled by birth, which I am not, to mock its tourist-trap shops, and to label them Granny's Hielan' Hame; moreover, he was happy to use his newly-earned pensioner's travel pass to travel from Glasgow and tramp the cobbled streets of his home town in our service, brandishing the mutilated Claw with its stump of a toe, and striving not to look or indeed feel embarrassed about it.

But the Edinburgh jewellers also threw up their hands in defeat. No one wants claw-like grouse feet any more; fluffy feathery Disney paws, perhaps, but not something that looked like it might rip out your windpipe in the middle of the night. And no one cured grouse feet any more; not a trade to attract the young.

But then, miles of cobbles having been tramped, hundred of tartan ornaments having crowded in on him in cramped little shops, John struck lucky. The ancient Mr D would ask his contemporaries about obtaining a replacement claw; perhaps amongst the dying breed of old-time jewellers, someone still knew of a wee Hielan' craftsman's cottage where grouse could come to have their feet cured. If a replacement could be found, Mr D would restore the brooch. He was scathing about the fluffy Disney version; a man after our own hearts. The Claw was handed over, and all went silent.

For about two years.

Enter The Claw

My sister-in-law M owns one of those grouse foot brooches* that were so popular back in the mists of time (as lazy/clueless would-be historians would put it). Set in silver, the foot, or claw, was a gift from her father to her mother when they got married*.

Years later, M was given the brooch as a gift from her mother, and dutifully wore it, perhaps not as her first choice of costume jewellery, but certainly out of nostalgia. Over the years the feathers dwindled in majesty, and the claw began to look its age.

One day, one of M's cats leaned across and delicately bit off one of the talons. This might have proved a major disappointment to the biter, but who knows, cats being the mysterious and inscrutable creatures that they are?* Maybe it was simply irresistible.

The mutilated Claw, now almost featherless, began to assume a certain B-movie horror film appearance, and M began to wonder about repair or restoration, as continuing to wear it in public might be a nostalgic gesture too far for the delicate of constitution or nerves.

But Newcastle jewellers threw up their hands in defeat - no one made or wore such brooches any more, did they? (And if they did, who were these people? Did they hunt their own costume jewellery?) There did seem to be a more modern version, but the claw element of the brooch had been transformed into something Disneyesque, a fluffy-feathered affair that obscured the talons - so fluffy, in fact, that they were sometimes thought to be rabbit's feet brooches. Again, who would wear a rabbit's foot brooch?*

* things to ponder, in a quiet contemplative moment

Coming Soon To A Blog Near You!!!

The Saga of The Claw!

Admission free. Prepare to be shocked, horrified, and amazed.

sun cat on the stairs

with a long and ghostly tail.

addendum: two careful previous owners

PG asks if A's plot had been left in a terrible state by its previous owners. Well, no, actually.

P and her partner had it for years, and only left because they felt it wasn't productive enough. They left the raised beds, and one of the sheds, but dismantled and rebuilt this one - note the flagged floor and the stove! - on their new plot, which now looks like they have been there for a decade instead of a year and a half. Sadly, I don't have a picture of the plot, just the coveted stove.

(Having the stove means that they happily garden in deepest winter, cosy, warm and with a ready supply of tea and toast. I want one! Maybe in my back yard...)

it took a whole hour...

...and a whole gingerbread loaf (with big chunks of soothing crystallised ginger in it) to get through that meeting. We sat in the hot sun, in a circle of assorted shed chairs, the dog in the middle looking hopefully at anyone with a piece of cake. Everything I predicted happened, plus much arm-waving and finger-pointing, and eventually - eventually! - agreement was reached to give A time to harvest her crops - a handful of broad beans and a small patch of potatoes, lost amongst the weeds) before she is cast forth into the Vale of Shame that allotment defaulters must face. The old chaps kept muttering "Get 'er off!" while the wishy-washy liberal do-gooders (the rest of us) thought she should be spoken to kindly and not left with searing memories of public humiliation and abandoned beans. It was also agreed that some other plot holders would be sent a Letter too. The rules were read out again and everyone fell about at the one about keeping the plots weed-free.

Several conversations went on at once, getting louder and louder in order to be heard over each other. Out of the blue, there was a racist comment (not that we have any hint of mixed ethnicity amongst the gardeners down there) and a suggestion was made for an Inspection Sub-Committee - duty to inspect the plots on a regular basis, which would almost certainly result in one or two of us either pulling our socks up sharpish or being Thrown Off too. Roger commented later that he had been surprised at the sudden 'bonkers' turn of the meeting, but it could have been even madder. P stood up suddenly, to ease her aching back, and we all took this as a sign that the meeting was over, and drifted off, otherwise we could have been there till nightfall.

No notes were taken, or indeed were possible. The treasurer offered to list all the points raised, in the hope that we can have a clearer system for Throwing Off in the future. I slunk off to pull up my socks and some of the weeds.

subject of the meeting

This is A's plot. Somewhere in there are half a dozen broad bean plants and a square yard of potatoes. Maybe a lost city too. I suppose you couldn't blame A for being completely defeated by it, or the Committee for wanting to evict her.

in 15 minutes....

...I will be down on the allotment for that hastily-convened Committee meeting that might be throwing someone off their plot. Maybe there will be cudgels and pitchforks. I'm not going a moment sooner, for fear of being nobbled by the secretary, who can't hold her water at all, and will have poured out a litany of grievances to anyone foolish enough to cross her path before the meeting begins.

I am taking a gingerbread loaf, very dark and black-treacly, and cut into thick slices, in the hope of sweetening the proceedings, but I fear the worst - there will be strong feelings, raised voices, incoherent dissent, ill-natured digression of the sort known as "going all around the houses", and cake isn't going to stop any of it.

I'll let you know.

down Memory Lane, St Petersburg

Feedjit tells me that someone visited from St Petersburg. Exciting! I went there once, when I was a girl, and the city was still called Leningrad. I was in a school party of 13-14-year-olds, accompanied by two of our nuns. We were taking a Baltic cruise on a school ship, 22 of us having won 1st prize from Nestle for a national schools competition. Our project on cocoa had been laboured over; I had been responsible for drawing the maps. This was because I was considered to be "good at drawing" and could manage a steel nib and Indian ink without spattering the entire page or my school blouse, rather than to have any understanding of world geography, cartography, or, indeed, cocoa.

In hindsight, the trip was largely wasted on us; we were too young, too excitable because of the unaccustomed freedom, and too shockingly ready to forget most of the cultural experiences on offer. We would have enjoyed Scarborough just as much. Later we talked most fondly of our visit to Copenhagen, and in particular to the Tivoli Gardens, which tells you a lot about our age and maturity. But the trip was memorable, for a variety of reasons, chiefly because the ship was filled with other girls - and boys too, how thrilling! - from schools up and down the country. We had fun on board, despite the ghastly food and the crowded bunk rooms.

The Leningrad visit was one to remember, though not for any fun-related element. Firstly, we had been so heavily warned about dire consequences should our behaviour be less than angelic that we were frozen with nerves for most of the visit, and hardly dared to look around us, let alone laugh or speak. Security was so tight and oppressive that a sense of threat and of being watched penetrated even our teenage brainlessness.

We were rushed at lightning speed through the Hermitage Museum, of which my solitary and bizarre memory is of a red crystal door knob, while feeling terrified that friend Leonie and I might become separated from our group, which was usually just what we tried to be. The official guides were strict, officious, and difficult to understand, and were keen to avoid the nuns having any contact with another living soul save themselves and us; however, I noticed repeatedly that older women (of whom there were many, all in large headscarves) crossed themselves when they saw the Sisters. We speculated later, out of Sr. Cuthbert's hearing, as to whether this was to signify religious solidarity or a Russian version of averting the Evil Eye. We tended to favour the latter.

Buying souvenirs from the official outlet was an unforgettable lesson in queuing - and we British think we have cornered the market in forming an orderly queue? - we know nothing, nothing, compared to those pre-perestroika Leningraders. Only last year I found my enamelled brooches in an old jewellery box, the Soviet hammer and sickle, a flag with the head of Lenin in relief on it, and the Red Star, and passed them on to the Lovely Son. He will never understand how long and how patiently we waited, at three separate counters, for those little beauties!

A few years ago, the Lovely Son and I went to see Alexander Sokurov's "Russian Ark", stunningly filmed in one slow take entirely inside the Hermitage. I watched open-mouthed at all that I had failed to see or remember all those years ago, but could I spot that red doorknob? Well, no.

sad sight

Noble creatures reduced to beggary.....

back yard 7

maybe I need a water feature....

back yard 6

And now it's time for a machete, a flame thrower and a ruthless approach. The passion flower has strangled the clematis. The acer japonica has spread and made the seat unusable. The collection of pots and boxes, filled with herbs and and sweet peas as well as perennials, looks a mess. The seats and table need to be painted, and the paving needs to be scrubbed and de-greenified.

Into action!

back yard 6

A handy shed was added; the Neighbourhood Watch lookout point. More growing went on.

back yard 5

The yard started to look quite full. Hanging washing out could be challenging.

back yard 4

Sometimes bad things happened.

back yard 3

And they grew, and grew.

back yard 2

Things started to grow, and to look happy there.

back yard 1

The back yard once looked like this. The outside lavatory and coal house had already been demolished by the Lovely Son. The yard was levelled, a sturdy back fence built, and the walls rendered. They were painted the colour of an English sky, neither blue nor grey.

Some basics started to appear, haphazardly, and with no budget or know-how, but it was Better. Or, as Manuel from the Dominican Republic, who rendered the walls, would say, "more bedder".

hello July